


Thank-you for choosing Qantas Airline. We hope you enjoy the flight.

by RaindropsandSucculents



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Come Eating, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Frottage, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Angst, Mile High Club, Murder Mystery, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Smut, cute as fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27837802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaindropsandSucculents/pseuds/RaindropsandSucculents
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is losing his mind with boredom, and the growing tension between him and his recently divorced flat mate is getting a bit ridiculous. So when two men are killed in a locked plane toilet during a 20 hour flight, he is elated. Finally something to do!But it isn’t as simple as Sherlock and John hoped. As the hours go by they are no closer to an answer, the case gets more confusing by the second. Why did they die? Why can’t anyone figure out how they died? Why is Moriarty seemingly all over this, even though he’s dead? But most pressingly, why is John Watson so goddamn clueless?The clock is ticking.————————————-Basically a murder mystery that takes place 30000 feet in the air, but with Sherlock remarkably aware of his own feelings and John being a tad bit oblivious. Featuring Johnlock being the cutest boys.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Thank-you for choosing Qantas Airline. We hope you enjoy the flight.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first Sherlock fanfic and I’m super excited about it! I’m not entirely sure how long it’s going to be as do yet. It originally was going to be 10 000 words at most, but after getting into it I think it needs more than that. Let me know what you think! 
> 
> In terms of the time and setting. It is set sometime roughly after the end of Season 3. Except John decided to divorce Mary after finding out the baby wasn’t his. I love Mary and I hate having to do this to her character, but it just made the most sense. Sherlock and John are back at 221B and solving crime similarly to the first two seasons. No Rosie, and Mary is gone for good. I’ve decided to pretend the events of season 4, do not exist and they will not happen. So it’s completely new territory from here! 
> 
> John and Sherlock have been living together for a couple of months now. And as they got to know each other again, they realised they had feelings for one another. They’ve basically been pining over one another for a few months at the beginning of this fic. I didn’t think it was necessary for the plot to have to go through that. If anyone needs clarification please let me know! 
> 
> Finally, this flight is the 20 hour flight you can get from London to Sydney, Australia. It’s non stop and really brutally exhausting. Any Australian locations, references etc are accurate as I’ve lived there for 16 years now and I love sneaking little facts into the writing. 
> 
> Anyhow, I really hope you enjoy! Apologies for such a long notes, I just wanted to clear any confusion up and establish the setting. I hope everyone is safe and healthy! 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John board the flight that a few weeks earlier, ended with two men dead.

The plane is crowded. People bustling through to seat themselves in the claustrophobic seats. Children squashed between parents, thighs pressed against thighs, sweat clinging to one another’s skin as they all writhe in this aluminium cage. The humidity of the air clings to my skin. It is hell, in the most mortal form possible. God. Simply put, I, Sherlock Holmes, hate flying. 

It usually isn’t an issue, with Mycroft sticking his abnormally large nose into my business and getting me into a more spacious flight at the very least. But this particular case demands my full attention, a double homicide in the locked bathroom of a Jumbo Jet with no witnesses. It’s at the very least an 8. Perfect for slicing through the heavy drudgery of boredom that seems to haunt my mind more as every days passes. No one is free to annoy or bother for distraction. Lestrade is busy with the usual holiday rush of petty crime, Mycroft is attempting to collapse a segment of the Iranian Government (the traffic, honestly) and even Molly, a person who seems to have to apparent social life, is visiting family. Meaning that any meaningful experiments are halted by her far less lenient replacement. Stopping me from taking my monthly thumbs! The complete idiocy of these people continues to astound me. 

So thank god for small wonders when 2 men were found dead in an aeroplane bathroom. Squashed together in a mocking parody of an embrace. Both asphyxiated. But no sign of any bruising, burst blood vessels or colour changes. Completely eliminating physical strangulation or smothering as the cause of death. The only physical abnormality found was a slight swelling on both of their tongues. Something easily explained by a million outside factors. Anderson continued to amaze me with his stupidity by suggesting they strangled each other at the same time. Some sort of suicide. Yes of course, let’s just completely ignore the lack of physical indicators of physical strangulation, not to mention the fact that these men had absolutely no prior connection to one another. Awfully sudden for them to decide they wanted to die together in an act of dramatic suicide after sitting in adjoining seats for less than an hour. Even Lestrade was taken aback by Anderson’s rambling. 

I examined the bodies throughly of course. They had nothing solid enough for the police, but I found enough (obviously). The men, James Billows (34 years of age) and Harrison Evans (29 years of age) had snuck into the bathroom together to engage in casual intercourse. Clear by the accumulation of dried sweat and a rather disgusting flake of semen under one of the finger nails of the men. And of course, the rather clear fact that the poor old couple in row 22 heard the whole thing. So I know why they were in there. But not how they were killed. If I can figure out the how, the why will appear. But I needed a better idea of the environment. 

So here we are. The great Sherlock Holmes folded uncomfortably into his seat in row 22. Almost on top of his flatmate, Doctor John Watson. 

“Honestly Sherlock, can you sit still for one second? I think you’re going to break the seat cover if you keep picking at it like that.” A rather disgruntled John says into my ear. His breath is warm and soft, it tickles the outer parts of my left ear. An unconscious shiver runs down my spine. 

I grunt, turning back towards him

“John, I have every right to be uncomfortable. 93.7% of plane accidents occur within ten minutes of the take off and landing. I would prefer not to die as a statistic in this sardine tin.”

Unfortunately my seriousness is ignored, John huffs a laugh, leaning into me and bumping my shoulder with his.  
“You’ll be fine. C’mon, the great Sherlock Holmes uncomfortable on an aeroplane? Ridiculous.”

I lift my chin haughtily, very aware of the rumbling of the engine as it starts up. 

“Just because I take appropriate action when faced with potential and probable danger does not mean I’m ‘uncomfortable’. I’m simply assessing my surroundings. I’m sure you wouldn’t understand. A simple brain like yours.” 

The insult seems to go completely over Johns head as he laughs again, though this time his eyes glisten kindly. He puts his hand on mine where it lays on the armrest, patting it like you would to a small child. I scowl, even as the warmth of his palm rips through my nervous system, nerve endings singing at the contact. 

“I’m not a child” I grumble but that just invites more laughter and patting. 

“Course not Sherlock. Of course not.” 

John keeps his hand on mine as we lapse into silence. The plane begins its slow descent towards the end of the runway, before suddenly picking up speed as the engines roar. I clench my fingers around the plastic of the arm rest. John stays looking ahead, but moves his hand from simply resting on top of mine, to entangle our fingers. Squeezing reassuringly. I don’t look at him, or mention it at all. But I do squeeze back slightly. He smiles a little and begins rubbing his thumb over mine in a soothing pattern, answering my unspoken words; you’re welcome Sherlock. 

The plane lifts off the ground and I can hear the wheels folding back into the metal belly of the plane. The seatbelt sign flickers off and the captain of the flight begins the traditional round of announcements. I tune it out, choosing instead to refocus my attention on the passengers. The likely hood of the killer being on the flight was slim, due to how recent the killings were. But if they were a member of staff or crew, then it was possible. The killer had to have been on the plane when the murder occurred, due to the inability of software to inhibit anything in the plane outside of radio signals. Anything else would have been picked up immediately. No such report was found. Unless of course they somehow could insure certain, untraceable death of both victims. But how could that possibly be?

So here we are. The flight is full to capacity. It is a hellish 20 hour flight from Heathrow, London to Sydney Airport, Australia. Plenty of time for the killer to have acted out the crime. 

The passengers are predominantly British tourists or Australian citizens returning home. The heady mix of accents rings in my ears, the subtle intonations and colloquial phrasing of each passenger suggesting where they are returning to after the flight hits the tarmac in Australia. The woman directly in front of me is planning to visit her sister in Sydney, before returning to a small, dust filled mining town in North Melbourne. The residual traces of dust in her shoes, size of her carry on and rather obvious gift for a close family member showing this clearly. The young family across the aisle are British tourists who have never been to Australia, they are woefully unprepared, wearing thin, minimal clothing, as if about to venture into the Sahara desert. Clearly forgetting that (funnily enough) it does get cold in Australia, and at this time of year, significant rain is expected. I turn from them and run my eyes over the rest of the passengers in view and earshot. Nothing  
particularly suspicious. I turn my attention to the crew and am faced with similar results. Nothing. 

I am awakened from my observations by John letting go of my hand and going to remove his belt. I turn suddenly and put my hand on the buckle. “Don’t take it off John, I know it may be uncomfortable but I’m the event of a crash I’d prefer you to have the highest possible chance of survival”. He starts and looks at me, fondness colouring his face. “It’s okay Sherlock. You know that the chances of an accident are very low, even in these first ten minutes. I’ll leave it on until we’re more stable. But then I’ll take it off. Okay?” He says. I frown at him, displeased at the clear disregard for safety. He laughs at my frown and removes my hand from the belt. Putting it back on the armrest he entwines his fingers with mine once again and any contestations I had die immediately. This... thing between us is confusing. Ever since my return to the living and Mary’s sudden departure, he has been insinuating in almost every possible manner that he wishes to pursue a romantic and sexual relationship with me. But still has not verbally confirmed this. After years of being apart, we came back and have fostered what Mycroft would call a “dangerous dependency on one another”. He cannot sleep unless I am sleeping next to him. I cannot eat unless he forces me to. We both struggle with residual trauma. Him from my supposed suicide, and me from the torture inflicted upon me whilst undercover. What a pair we make. I flinch at the sound of a whip cracking, once almost fainting at the evidence of torture in a victim of a case. Him going white at any mention of my death, turn of phrase or not. Bursting into a very violent round of tears when I fainted from a concussion after slipping on the steps outside 221B. A highly humiliating incident for me, and a highly traumatising one for him. My head laying in the stone, blood leaking as I appear very much dead. Both of us are riddled with fears. 

But being able to hold him through his nightmares and him holding me through mine is worth every ounce of judgement and ridicule we could possibly receive. But even after months of this, he still hasn’t said anything about the nature of our relationship. He has not made any overtly romantic gestures. We have not kissed, has any sexual contact or referred to our relationship romantically. Yet we hold hands and sleep in the same bed, something intense reading has assured me is not platonic. So I wait. I do not know enough to possibly make the ‘first move’ as they say. Although I do very much wish to. 

His thumb has returned to the gentle stroking of mine and I sigh minutely at the feeling. I want to reach out and wrap my arm around his shoulder, pull him in and press my head into the crook of his neck. Breathe him in as he holds me. What would his lips feel like? He uses a common lip moisturiser fairly often, so they would probably be smooth. What would those lips feel like trailing down my neck? How would they feel parting to allow his tongue through. How would his hands feel, tracing down my sides and untucking my shirt? A hot flush washes over me as I imagine what has been confined to the time I shower for months now. A huff of air passes my lips as I shift, my pants feeling a little tighter than before. The shift draws John’s attention and he turns his head to look at me from where he had been gazing out of the window.

“You all good Sherlock? You’ve gone red.” He reaches his free hand up to brush my curls out of the way. Pressing his cool palm on my forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever, what’s wrong?” He asks. I blush even brighter and shift my eyes from his. “It’s nothing.” I say, a tad strained. “Just a bit nervous.” He smiles back at me and my eyes are immediately drawn to the redness of his mouth as it parts. 

Goddamn it. 

Maybe I should have come alone. This is far too distracting. 

John pats my cheek, reassuring me yet again. Desperate to change the subject, I leap into retelling my observations of all the passengers. He listens eagerly, chiming in now and again to add his own observations. Or to simply exclaim at how ‘incredible’ mine are. The latter not helping my blush whatsoever. 

After almost 15 minutes of analysis of those in our section of the aircraft, I’m itching to get out of this seat and have a thorough search throughout the plane. After weeks of crime scene processing, recording and then cleaning, the plane was allowed back into the air. People die in planes more than most think, it’s fairly standard practice to simply put it back to work. Of course, the suspicious circumstances of the deaths do change some things, but the core purpose of the aircraft is to transport. So when it could be put to work it was. This is only the second flight since it was returned to the sky and though we were unable to get into the first flight, the second was more accessible. Police filled the first flight anyhow, so the chances of the killer making any move at all were next to nothing. I am beyond eager to scope out the bathroom, and hopefully find something that I couldn’t see when I examined it on the ground. It’s possible the killer is preparing for another kill. May have even been emboldened with committing such a brash crime right next to so many unaware people. Lestrade and his team of bumbling idiots did manage to do one thing right and confirmed no double ups of passengers or crew from the flight the incident took place during. The only being the copilot, who had a rock solid alibi, flying a plane is usually pretty intensive. So either the culprit is not up for a second performance or is clever enough to have created a new identity or stolen another’s. Border security didn’t flag anything, but most fakes never get seen anyhow. I know Mycroft smuggles at least 10 people over British borders a week, and none of his have been caught yet. Of course I don’t anticipate the killer to be on the intellectual level of my brother, but hey need to be at least slightly bright to work this out. So I need to be here, so that when the killer strikes again. I’ll know. 

I shift in my seat again, turning to John, who is patiently waiting for me to finish with whatever I’ve found myself thinking of now. His eyes lighten as he sees me leaning in, hand still in mine. I put my lips by his ear and mutter quietly. It wouldn’t do to reveal our identities yet. 

“I wish to take a closer look at the bathroom in question. Please remain here and keep an open eye for any suspicious activity. Text me. If I’m not back within 15 minutes, then come looking.” 

I relay this quickly and once I’ve finished he simply gives me a nod of affirmation. Squeezing hand once more before letting go and picking up a magazine, eyes trained on the words, but not truly reading them. I unbuckle my seat belt, a tad bit apprehensive at the notion. But at least the danger zone do the first ten minutes has well and truly passed. I stand somewhat awkwardly, my height, usually an advantage, simply inhibits me in this sort of environment. Shuffling out of the seat into the aisle I straighten, walking back towards the toilets. Being such a large aircraft, there are more toilets than usual, a stroke of luck that is very beneficial to my sanity, as I will not have to wait at endless queues to get in to the right cubicle. I reach the bathrooms and peer at the outside of the door of the left hand bathroom. 

It is completely ordinary. 

There is nothing at all different. It’s not conspicuous in any way, but not too inconspicuous to be suspicious. It has the right amount of scratches, suspicious marks and dents. The lock is slightly stiff from age and being overworked. When I pull the door open it goes rather easily. Definitely not a new door, but not old enough to be flagged on a check of the plane. I step into the bathroom and close the door behind me. I do not lock it. I would vastly prefer someone walk in on me when I’m not even utilising the facilities than be locked in here in the event of an attack. I stop in the small space, barely more than a meter square. A song is built into the wall on my right. The toilet in front of me and toilet paper to my left. It is completely normal. Just like the door. I search every nook and cranny. I peel back one of the panels on the roof, but there is nothing but insulation. The water is clean when faced with every test I can possibly conduct on it and the taps have not been tampered with. The smoke detector is fully functioning and I take care when dismantling it to avoid setting it off. 

I text John

Going to be 10 minutes longer than expected. Do not worry yourself. 

Yep. I’ll restrain myself. 

I pocket my phone and turn back to the toilet. I lift the seat, look along the inner rim. I check the flush. Everything is fine. Just like it was when the police checked through it. 

Even when I checked. 

The only odd thing about the toilet was the presence of two dead men, sprawled over one another. Nothing about this toilet was suspicious. It had to have been something that happened outside of the toilet. The money likely cause of death is poison. Something untraceable or that deteriorates quickly in the body. What the poison is doesn’t I’m even really matter, but how the poison was introduced into it only one persons system, but two. Passengers reported nothing wrong. All of their utensils from the meals they consumed had been tested. As had any drinks they had been given or had in their bags. They had no puncture wounds or marks indicating injection. No signs of an air based toxin were found and would have been impossible to isolate around two people outside of the toilet anyhow. 

So how?

I sigh. There’s nothing that is going to help me in this bathroom. I wash my hands and step out. The family in row 22 give me an odd array of looks. Fair enough, I was just in their for close to 30 minutes. 

I make my way back towards where I can see Johns head in amongst the rows of irritating idiots on this flight. His eyes are still trained on the magazine, but flicker up as I squeeze back into my seat. He puts it down, still on the same page as when I left. I nod to him and sit, loudly complaining about the state of aeroplane bathrooms, incase of eavesdroppers. His lips quirk at my behaviour and he folds the magazine to put away in the pocket on the seat. My mouth goes dry when I see the way his eyes flicker from my mouth, to the expanse of neck and the skin showing of my chest where the top https of my shirt is undone. My voice cracks and his eyes dart back up. Could he be more confusing? He so clearly is expressing attraction, yet when I show the same to him he just ignores it. 

For fucks sake. 

I lean in towards him and his pupils dilate. Mine are undoubtedly doing the same. I stop speaking and flick my tongue out to re wet my lips. He eyes flicker down again and I see his hand clench on his knee. I lean in further, my body almost parallel with his. I can feel the heat emanating from his face as he blushes. I move in further and lips brush his jaw. I can smell the cheap shampoo he insists of using. I turn my head, and he gasps. Then-

“Excuse me sir! Could I get you anything to drink?” The overly cheery voice of a flight attendant breaks through the haze. I force myself back to facing forward and take a second to calm the roaring in my head. I put on my most charming (fake) smile and turn to her. She goes slightly red as I smoothly inquire towards the drink options in the flight. In the end I op for a cup of tea. Turning to John, I ask him what he’d like. I haven’t looked at him since we were interrupted and now I’m wishing I had continued avoiding it. He’s scarlet. Pupils so enlarged that he almost looks as I did all those years ago as I injected myself with every drug known to man. He stammers, avoiding eye contact. I can feel the blistering embarrassment flowing off of him. Feeling slightly guilty, I reach my hand out and grasp his, rubbing it gently, much like he did for me only 40 or so minutes earlier. He finally raises his eyes to mine and I smile as gently as I can manage at him. He looks somewhat startled but finally turns towards the now very uncomfortable looking flight attendant and relays his order. She mumbles something about being back with their orders and bustles off. 

I turn back to John and keep my hand on his. 

“Apologies for any embarrassment I just caused.” I say. Trying to show my sincerity as best I can through facial expression. He nods, cheeks still slightly pink. 

“Uh- all good. It’s all fine.” He voice is slightly strained, but still clear. Surely that whole display got the message across. He looks away. Bringing an obviously false sense of morality to his posture. 

“So. Forgot to check. How did the toilet go?” 

I start, realising I hadn’t even told him what I had discovered. Or rather, not discovered. 

“Right. So basically-“ I beginC and spend the next few minute retelling the startlingly ordinary state of the bathroom. 

John looks at me, some doubt I’m his eyes. 

“You definitely didn’t go into the wrong toilet right?” He says, eyebrows raising. 

“John!” I exclaim. Offended at the notion that I, the great Sherlock Holmes would ever go into the wrong toilet. He chuckles. 

“Just kidding. God your face. Though let’s be honest it’s not that crazy a possibility.” I try to seem affronted, but can’t help the small smile that makes it’s way into my face. I nudge him with my shoulder. The lack of evidence I found was unexpected. We need to work out a new angle. Perhaps speaking to some staff?

I interrupt my train of thought and look towards John. 

“So, my dear John. Whatever shall we do now?” 

He laughs again and we both launch into possibilities and theories. Where we should go from here, who to talk to. We have a limited amount of time left on this flight and we must use it wisely. I look to my watch, a bit of a feat considering it’s attached to the hand that John is grasping tightly. One hour has passed so that means...

I look up at John as his eyes focus on the time displayed as well. Our eyes meet, both aware of the time limit that is imposed on us. Nineteen hours left until we land. I can feel the tension building by the second. I will ensure both of the questions on my mind are answered when we touch down. 

Who killed James Billowy and Harrison Evans? 

and what on earth am I going to do about John Watson?

**Author's Note:**

> Comments keep me alive!


End file.
